Grottenberg the Elder

Christ the King Sunday

TEXT: Matthew 25:31-46

 

“Then the king will say to those at his right hand, ‘Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.’” (Matthew 25:34-36)

 

Gracious and merciful God, we give you thanks and praise this day for sending your Christ to be our King:

• King of the poor, to whom belongs the kingdom of heaven;
• King of the sorrowful, who experience a comfort this world cannot give;
• King of the meek, who are destined to inherit the earth;
• King of the hungry and thirsty, to whom are promised heavenly bread and wine;
• King of the merciful, who give without expecting reward;
• King of the pure of heart, who find hope where others see only desolation and despair;
• King of the peacemakers, whom you call your children;
• King of persecuted believers, who rejoice to be counted worthy of suffering for his sake.

Thanks be to you, God of Christ our wounded King, for everything he has taught us, for the humble path he has shown us, and for all he has suffered—for us, and for the whole world.

We think, O God, of all the places where we can find your Son and hear him calling to us.

We think of how he is present in the lives of those who are sick, and of how we can see him in the face of the strangers in our community.

We think of how he longs for us to visit him in prison; how he cries out to be fed, and clothed, and given shelter in the cities of our nation, and in the deserts and refugee camps and combat zones of our world.

We think of those who have no power; who find themselves at the mercy of forces over which they have no control—economic, political, military, and social forces which bring conflict, poverty, and myriad forms of hardship; climatic and environmental forces which bring drought, famine, and natural disaster; forces of nature which work to destroy the weakest and most helpless amongst us—forces which we are called to oppose, as people to whom you have given dominion over the earth.

Make us more aware of how Christ Jesus is to be found within the least of our brothers and sisters; of how he meets us in those we consider unimportant or less righteous or less deserving than others. Grant to us this day compassionate hearts and the will to serve.

By the power of your Spirit, O God, help us to live out our discipleship with increasing faithfulness; to show our commitment to Christ through our actions every day: through how we spend our time and our money; through how we employ our hands and direct our feet; through how we speak and how we think; through how we work and how we play.

We pray for your healing touch and assurance and peace for all those who are in need this day. We pray for those near to us, and for those dear to us. We pray for those whose names we know, and for those whose names—and needs—are known only to you.

Inspire our service—to all of these, and to the least of these—that we may feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, welcome strangers, clothe the naked and visit the incarcerated, as faithful believers in the hope to which Christ Jesus has called us; in his name we ask it. Amen.

25th Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 28A

TEXTS: 1 Thessalonians 5:1-11 and Matthew 25:14-30

 

For you yourselves know very well that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night. When they say, “There is peace and security”, then sudden destruction will come upon them, as labour pains come upon a pregnant woman, and there will be no escape! (1 Thess. 5:2-3)

“For it is as if a man, going on a journey, summoned his slaves and entrusted his property to them; to one he gave five talents, to another two, to another one, to each according to his ability. Then he went away …  After a long time the master of those slaves came and settled accounts with them.” (Matt. 25:14-15, 19)

“The day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night,” when the master returns to settle accounts with his servants.

The first half of that statement comes, of course, from the epistle to the Thessalonians—and the second half is from our gospel lesson. First we hear from Paul, writing to the church in Thessalonica; and then from Jesus, speaking to … Well, speaking to his original 12 disciples, but—since Matthew saw fit to record it—speaking to us, as well.

Both Paul and Jesus sound rather harsh here, don’t they? Sudden destruction coming like labour pains, with no chance of escape. Outer darkness, with weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Before I go any further, I want to draw your attention to one point and remind you of another.

First, notice what Paul tells us. As believers, we are not lost in darkness—and we are not abandoned to destruction. As the apostle elsewhere assures us, “there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” (Rom. 8:1).

Second—with regard to the gospel lesson—remember that this is Jesus speaking. Yes. Jesus. The lover of hyperbole. Jesus. The master of attention-grabbing oratory.

Also remember that this story Jesus tells—which we refer to as the “parable of the talents”—is meant to convey a truth about the kingdom of heaven. That’s an important point, because (as we should all know by now) what’s important in heaven’s kingdom is not gold or silver or stocks or bonds. It’s not currency that will garner more interest in a mutual fund or an RRSP.

You understand this, right? The coin of the realm in God’s kingdom is not convertible to Canadian funds, US dollars, Euros, or Yen. You may indeed have a mansion in heaven, but you can’t flip it for a quick profit.

So what is this illustrative tale actually about?

Let’s back up a little bit, and clarify our terms. We call this the “parable of the talents.” But what is a talent, exactly?

That word “talent” has a double meaning. In its original sense, it refers to a huge sum of money. In the ancient world, a talent was worth about 15 years’ wages for an ordinary person. In present-day terms—based on the current Alberta minimum wage of $15.00 an hour—one talent is worth about $4.6 million! So, when the master gives his slaves (we might rather call them “servants”) five talents, or two talents—or even just one—he is entrusting them with a sizable fortune.

The second meaning of the word “talent” results from a particular interpretation of this parable. As the master entrusts his servants with talents, so does God entrust each one of us with practical gifts. “Talent” has therefore come to mean “ability” or “skill.” We say that someone has a “talent” for writing, or acting, or music, or business.

However, this “parable of the talents” is not really about money or ability. It’s about something far more important. “The parable of the talents” is about trust.

The story begins with an act of trust. As the master is about to depart on a journey, he entrusts his wealth to three of his servants. Each is given a different sum—yet each sum is immense. Clearly, the master trusts these guys. Notice he hands over the money without any instructions.

Eventually, the master returns and calls in his three servants. Two of them have doubled their money. The third has made nothing at all; he returns to his master exactly the amount he received. It turns out that he has simply buried the money in the ground.

Why? Well, as it turns out, his motivation—or lack of it—was born out of fear! And the explanation he gives isn’t going to endear him to his employer: “Boss, I know you’re only too glad to reap the benefits of other people’s labour without doing any work yourself—and I know how harshly you deal with those who fail. So I didn’t dare take any chances with your money at all. Here—have it back!”

His trust in his master was zero, so he reduced his financial risk to zero. Yet he reduced the possibility of profit to zero, as well.

You know, this story begs a question. How would the master have reacted if the first two servants had not brought in a profit? What if they had gambled and lost? What if they had put the money at risk and come back empty-handed?

Here’s what I think: I think the master would have forgiven them! Remember, this is a parable about the kingdom of heaven. The master commends not profits, but faithfulness. He does not praise the servant who produced five talents more than the one who produced two.

Each receives the same commendation: “Well done, good and faithful servant.” Each receives the same reward: “You have been trustworthy in a few things, I will put you in charge of many things; enter into the joy of your master.”

And in responding to the third servant, the master makes it clear that he would have accepted any kind of return—even rock-bottom, savings-account interest! Anything that was motivated by faith rather than by fear.

Moreover—since this is one of Jesus’ teaching stories—I think it’s significant that the servant who is given five talents makes five talents more, and the one who receives two makes two more. This doubling in each case suggests that the growth is automatic. It’s not the cleverness of the servants that produces results. No. It’s their willingness to trust.

Like I said, this parable is not so much about money or ability as it is about trust. The master trusts his servants—and he acts on this trust. Two of the servants return the favour by responding in trust, and they come back to their employer with one fortune stacked on top of another.

But the third servant … Well, he makes his boss out to be a greedy tyrant who demands success. And so, what he gets for his trouble is precisely the rejection he so deeply fears. He is a small-minded man convinced that his master is equally small-minded.

The other two servants, however, recognize generosity when they see it. The piles of cash thrust their way speak of an employer who is both trusting and generous—who is willing to take a risk, who has confidence in them, and will honour them for their efforts.

Finding themselves at the receiving end of such outrageous trust, they feel emboldened to take risks of their own. The love their master has shown them overpowers any thought of failure. They realize that a person who treats his money managers in this open-handed way is more interested in them—and in their abilities—than he is concerned about making a profit.

Like so many of the stories Jesus told, this one turns the standards of the world upside down.

According to Jesus, the worst thing that can happen to us is not failure. No. The worst thing that can happen to us is believing that God is an acrimonious old curmudgeon who will smite us if we fail.

The worst thing is not losing out. The worst thing is never risking. In the eyes of God, keeping his treasure buried in the ground is a terrible and shameful waste. It is a faithless act, symptomatic of an insidious form of atheism.

Faith, on the other hand … Faith dares to put God’s treasure to work. Faith dares to put God’s treasure at risk. And—even if the whole kit and kaboodle is lost as a result—our faith will earn our master’s praise. After all, we can learn from our failures. And, let’s face it, very often, it is failure that teaches the most valuable lessons. Fear teaches us nothing at all.

The word of Christ to us is, “Fear not!”  Over and over again, we hear him say, “Do not be afraid.” And—with his trademark hyperbole—he shocks us into the recognition that failing to trust in God is … Well, for those of us who claim to follow Jesus, such infidelity is unbecoming.

Jesus tells numerous stories to illustrate that point. There’s the spiteful older brother who refuses to welcome home the prodigal son; the all-day workers who demand that late arrivals receive less than the daily wage; and the Pharisee who thinks God will accept him because he has kept the rules—and not because the Lord is merciful. All of these characters live in a gray, fearful world—a world devoid of grace, where underachievers get thrown to the wolves.

Now, before we dismiss these folks as pathetic losers, we should ask ourselves: are we ever like them? Do we ever bury our talents in the ground, out of fear? Have we ever misperceived—and mistrusted—God?

Here’s another question: what if the true, living and only God has no interest in keeping score? What if God’s concern is simply that we all step up to the plate and take a turn at bat?

And still another question, no less challenging: what does all of this mean for those—including me—who wring their hands and stew about the future of the Church?

The Good News of Jesus breathes new meaning into our notions of success and security. Success is found not in accumulating more “stuff” than we can ever use—or in filling every seat at Sunday morning worship—but in our willingness to take risks for the sake of God’s kingdom. Security is found not in keeping pace with our rising paranoia, but in trusting our utterly reliable God—the One who trusts us before we trust ourselves; the God who takes risks—and calls us to risk, also.

The “parable of the talents” reminds us of something that we too easily forget—and that is simply this: what God requires of us is not success, but faithfulness. And I, for one, think that is very good news.

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 2023

REMEMBRANCE DAY (CANADA)

TEXTS: Joshua 24:1-3a, 14-25 and Psalm 78:1-7

 

Give ear, O my people, to my law:
incline your ears to the words of my mouth.
I will open my mouth in a parable:
I will utter dark sayings of old:

which we have heard and known,
and our fathers have told us.
We will not hide them from their children,
shewing to the generation to come the praises of the LORD,
and his strength, and his wonderful works that he hath done.

For he established a testimony in Jacob,
and appointed a law in Israel,
which he commanded our fathers,
that they should make them known to their children:
that the generation to come might know them,
even the children which should be born;
who should arise and declare them to their children: that they might set their hope in God,
and not forget the works of God,
but keep his commandments … (Psalm 78:1-7)

Both of our scripture readings for today are linked by a common theme: the theme of telling the story and—in the telling of the story—recommitting oneself to the principles and the personalities revealed in the story.

The story we are to tell is, of course, the story of our God and how he has been faithful to us as a people.

It is in remembering and telling the story that we discover who we are and the meaning of our lives. It is in recalling the past that we may best see our way into the future. Through remembering what happened and why it happened, we discover the principles and the guidelines by which our lives should be governed.

Telling the story. Recommitting ourselves. Recalling the past. Looking to the future. That is, of course, what Remembrance Day is all about. And as I began thinking about a message for today, it occurred to me that someone had already done a better job of it than I ever could.

So, today, instead of the usual blog, I’m going to do something different. I’m sure we all know John McCrae’s timeless poem, “In Flanders Fields.”  Now, I want to show you another poem. John Mitchell wrote it. It’s called “Reply to Flanders Fields.”

Reply to Flanders Fields by John Mitchell

Oh! Sleep in peace where poppies grow;
The torch your falling hands let go
Was caught by us, again held high,
A beacon light in Flanders sky
That dims the stars to those below.
You are our dead, you held the foe,
And ere the poppies cease to blow,
We’ll prove our faith in you who lie
In Flanders Fields.

Oh! Rest in peace, we quickly go
To you who bravely died, and know
In other fields was heard the cry,
For freedom’s cause, of you who lie,
So still asleep where poppies grow,
In Flanders Fields.

As in rumbling sound, to and fro,
The lightning flashes, sky aglow,
The mighty hosts appear, and high
Above the din of battle cry,
Scarce heard amidst the guns below,
Are fearless hearts who fight the foe,
And guard the place where poppies grow.
Oh! Sleep in peace, all you who lie
In Flanders Fields.

And still the poppies gently blow,
Between the crosses, row on row.
The larks, still bravely soaring high,
Are singing now their lullaby
To you who sleep where poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.

Amen.

https://www.poetrynook.com/poem/reply-“-flanders-fields”

23rd Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 26A

TEXT: Matthew 23:1-12

 

“They do all their deeds to be seen by others; for they make their phylacteries broad and their fringes long.”

That, of course, is part of Jesus’ tirade against the Pharisees in chapter 23 of Matthew’s gospel.

“Phylacteries and fringes.” Do you know what that’s about? If not, don’t feel stupid. I would wager that very few of us modern Christians have any idea about “phylacteries” or “fringes.”

So here’s a brief explanation. The Pharisees, you may remember, were the good religious people of their place and time. Jesus and the Pharisees actually had a great deal in common—which may explain why they were so frequently the target of his criticism; he figured they were capable of better things.

Anyway, the Pharisees took two articles of dress which were worn by many other Jews, and they emphasized them. One of these was the phylactery. It was a tiny box—usually made of leather or metal or wood—which was fastened to the forehead (or sometimes to the hand) by leather straps. This little box contained scraps of parchment inscribed with Bible passages referring to the Passover, and to the redemption of the first-born.

Why would they do that? Well, because of their zeal to obey the Torah. In chapter 13 of Exodus, Moses is trying to impress upon the Hebrew people how important it is for them to remember their history—especially the story of their liberation from slavery in Egypt.

This history, Moses tells them, should always be uppermost in their minds—just as if they inscribed the story on their hands, or carried it upon their foreheads.

Now, you and I might think Moses was using a figure of speech here—but the Pharisees took his words quite literally.

The other special feature of the Pharisaic dress code had to do with blue fringes—or tassels—placed at the corners of their garments. If you’ve ever seen an authentic prayer shawl, you’ll know what this is about. This custom, also, comes from the Torah. In chapter 15 of the Book of Numbers, we read: “The LORD said to Moses: Speak to the Israelites, and tell them to make fringes on the corners of their garments throughout their generations and to put a blue cord on the fringe at each corner” (Num. 15:37-38).

Well … okay … So the Pharisees took the Scriptures very seriously. So what? What’s wrong with that?

In and of itself, there’s nothing wrong with that. Trouble is … according to Jesus … too many of them were practicing their religion for the wrong reasons. Listen again to what he says: “They do all their deeds to be seen by others; for they make their phylacteries broad and their fringes long. They love to have the place of honour at banquets and the best seats in the synagogues, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have people call them rabbi” (Matt. 23:5-7).

Even worse is this criticism: “The scribes and Pharisees sit on Moses’ seat; therefore do whatever they teach you, but do not do as they do, for they do not practice what they teach” (Matt. 23:2-3).

Ouch! This is not the first time Jesus has called out the scribes and the Pharisees for hypocrisy. Indeed, these good religious people must have felt—often—that this Galilean rabbi was picking on them. But why? Certainly not because they were inherently evil, or because Jewish law no longer mattered. No. In fact, Jesus constantly reminded his followers about the importance of the law.

Here’s what I think: I think Jesus singled out the scribes and Pharisees because they thought too highly of themselves … and because—in all their humanness—they fell so very short of the ideals which they espoused.

I wonder what Jesus might say about us. The truth is, it’s extremely difficult to live up to our ideals. Well, isn’t it? It’s awfully hard to really practice what we preach.

And perhaps, in our day, professional clergy (or “accountable ministers” like me) are among the worst offenders when it comes to not living out the humility we recommend to others. It’s amazing how much time and energy my own denomination has spent—and continues to spend—on questions relating to titles and privileges and showing due respect to the grand high exalted ones who stand behind a pulpit on Sunday mornings.

Should I “gown up” or not? (I do have a gown, by the way—along with a whole bunch of other regalia; but I don’t enjoy wearing it. I’ve never learned how to sit properly while wearing a dress.)

Here’s another question: who has the right to wear a clerical collar? And who does not? And why?

Should you call me “Reverend” or “Pastor” or “Mister” or just … “Gary”? (I’m OK with any title except that first one.)

Is an ordained minister inherently holier than an “ordinary” Christian? And why do we ordain anybody? Whatever happened to “the priesthood of all believers”?

Maybe we’re not so different from the scribes and the Pharisees.

Of course, the problem actually goes much deeper than what we wear or how we are addressed. Phylacteries and fringes, vestments and titles—all of these have their place, I suppose, when kept in perspective. Jesus’ concern, however, remains the same: when those things get out of perspective; when our motivations for doing them get distorted; when they become an end in themselves; then we have a problem. Because these superficial things can too easily become substitutes for what we really should be about: glorifying God and living as disciples of Jesus.

If their flawed human nature made it hard for the scribes and Pharisees to keep their motives pure, to practice what they preached, we in the 21st-century church may be even more profoundly challenged. Why? Because we still have the same human nature, and—on top of that—we live in a culture that values appearances, status, position, achievement, and material wealth.

That is pretty challenging, isn’t it? And coupled with the fact that the influence of religion in Canadian society is rapidly diminishing, it’s no wonder that so many of us are tempted to do things to make ourselves stand out. Like marching at the front of the Pride Parade. Or heckling the Pride Parade while waving signs objecting to it. Or angrily demonstrating outside an elementary school. Or calling for the defunding of the police. Or—perhaps especially in the so-called “mainline” churches—boldly stating how very little we actually believe … as if that’s a good thing!

Unfortunately—even when it’s undertaken with the best of intentions—this kind of behaviour too easily degenerates into bombastic self-promotion; and that leads us far, far away from the kind of discipleship to which Jesus calls us.

Christian discipleship has nothing to do with standing out or putting ourselves first. To the contrary, we—all of us—are called not to seek glory for ourselves, but to serve others. Jesus consistently reminded his followers that “the greatest among you will be your servant” (Matt. 23:11).

“All who exalt themselves will be humbled,” Jesus said, “and all who humble themselves will be exalted” (Matt. 23:12).

So we’re caught between what the gospel calls us to, and what our culture promotes. No wonder we so often find ourselves in the same bind as the scribes and the Pharisees. We believe one thing—in fact, we hold it in our hearts—and yet, our behaviour … Well, our behaviour contradicts our beliefs.

In the gospel lesson for today, Jesus paints a lurid picture of a barren religious life—one which features all the outward signs of righteousness but none of the inward reality. The scribes and the Pharisees looked good. And they were always ready to lay down the Law, to inform people about the rules and regulations. But the power of God’s love was absent from their pronouncements. They did not practice what they preached.

What if we were forced to be accountable in matters of faith? What if we were made to preach what we practice, not the other way around? What if we had to confess—in front of God and everyone else—what we actually do practice?

Would you or I be prepared to do that? I would guess … probably … not.

Jesus tells us that there must be a connection between our professions of faith and the quality of our lives. A code of ethics—however noble—is hollow without something to back it up.

Today’s gospel exposes the tragedy of being religious without being real—of emphasizing outward conduct rather than inward character. The scribes and the Pharisees did not recognize their own desperate need for change, for transformation. Too many of us, I fear, are just like them; we may “talk the talk,” but we do not “walk the walk.”

We may think we possess a high-octane faith, but—when forced to rely upon our spiritual resources, we discover that our tank is empty. We are all fumes, and no fuel.

I know this stuff isn’t easy. None of us is a hypocrite on purpose. It’s just that it’s hard for us to connect Jesus saying “Love your neighbour” with the guy next door who plays his music too loud or lets his dogs bark late into the evening. Or with the young woman selling her body on the street in order to satisfy her addiction.

It’s hard to reconcile Jesus’ command to “turn the other cheek” with the necessity of increased defense spending and reports of violence at home and abroad.

It’s hard to heed Jesus’ injunction not to “worry about what you shall eat or what you shall drink or what you shall wear” (Matt. 6:31) when your unemployment benefits are about to expire, or when your investments tank, or when your landlord tells you to clear out by the end of the month.

It’s hard to live up to our ideals. Sometimes we can’t even figure out how to practice what we preach.

There’s only one answer to this dilemma. There’s only one cure for what ails us. And that answer is God’s grace.

Yes. God’s grace. The grace of God. No matter how many times we stumble—no matter how often or how badly we fail as disciples of Jesus—God will give us yet one more opportunity for faithful living. One more kick at the can. No matter how often we behave selfishly, we will be given yet more chances to put others first. No matter how badly we fail to practice what we preach, God’s love and God’s grace are still there for us.

God’s love and God’s grace continue to hold us, and comfort us, and sustain us. We will always have yet one more chance. One more chance to get it right. One more chance to answer Jesus’ call to humble service; to love our neighbours as we love ourselves.

That’s what Jesus teaches, my friends. And it is very good news for imperfect people—people like me … and maybe even … people like you. Thanks be to God.

22nd Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 25A

TEXTS: Matthew 22:34-46 and 1 Thessalonians 2:1-8

 

When the Pharisees heard that [Jesus] had silenced the Sadducees, they gathered together, and one of them, a lawyer, asked him a question to test him. “Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?” He said to him, ‘“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.” (Matthew 22:34-40)

In other words, you are supposed to love God totally—without any division between heart and soul and mind; and love your neighbour the way you love yourself. Total love—total, undivided love—this is what Jesus calls us to.

It sounds good in theory, but it’s not so readily put into practice, is it? If you’re like me, you find it a lot easier to love in the abstract than to love in the concrete.

Yet, God calls us to love him totally—and out of that love, to love our neighbours as ourselves. The two commandments are bound into one—total love of God, and total love of neighbour—so that one becomes the measure of the other.

There is an old story about the fourth evangelist, Saint John. You may recall that John was the youngest of the twelve disciples; he also lived the longest—well into  his nineties, in fact—and he was the only one of the original twelve to die a natural death. In his old age, John lived in the city of Ephesus in Asia Minor (what we know today as Turkey). In his later years, unfortunately, he became feeble—not only in body, but also in mind. John’s ability to think and express himself became ever more limited, until finally he could say only a few words. This, however, did not matter to the Ephesian Christians, who held John in the highest esteem as the last surviving member of Jesus’ inner circle.

On Sundays, he would be carried into the midst of the congregation that had assembled for worship. The people would fall silent to hear his words. Then the old man would open his mouth; and this is what the aged disciple would say: My children, love one another. My children, love one another. My children, love one another.” Over and over again, just that: “My children, love one another.”

Jesus says that we should love God with everything we have—that our love needs to be shown in every part of our lives. We are to love God—and, in the end, love our neighbours—with heart, and mind, and soul: the heart, where passion lives within us; the mind, the thoughtful and rational part of us; the soul, the mystical, spiritual part of us. There should be no division inside of us, and no division outside of us—no division, in other words, between how we love God and how we love ourselves and our neighbours.

At least, that’s the ideal. Personally, I always fall short of it. Sometimes, in fact, I’m not even sure what is the loving thing to do. It’s as though my heart and soul and mind disagree about what actions are or are not loving. I find myself inwardly divided. Maybe it’s that way for some of you, as well. And so, I want to tell you something about how we can love when we feel like that—when the path before us is unclear.

Now, before I say anything else, I want to say this: in the end, the only love that counts is the love of God. Not our love—whether it be for God or for neighbour—but God’s love for us. It is on this—and this alone—that we stake our salvation. We do not earn our way into heaven. God embraces us in Jesus and calls us to come to him as a gift of his love. That is the important thing; the rest is simply us trying to respond as faithfully as we can.

God knows what we are like. God knows that we are often divided within ourselves, that we have conflict between the different parts of ourselves—that desires seek to overwhelm us, critical thoughts seek to misguide us, evil spirits whisper to our souls. God understands this, and God is forgiving when our love does not quite measure up. But still God calls us to love totally!

So, how do I know if I am loving well? What standard can I use to determine if I am on the right track, especially when other forces within and without me are calling into question the integrity of my love?

The apostle Paul knew where to look for such a standard. As our epistle lesson reminds us, Paul found his own integrity being questioned. His reputation came under attack from people who suggested he was not doing all things well, that he was in fact preying upon vulnerable people—seeking his own welfare rather than theirs and building up his own self rather than working for the glory of God and the good of others.

Paul faced the kind of accusations that most of us face during our lifetime—accusations that may be made by others, or even made within ourselves by our own self-doubts. How did he respond?

Well, in our reading from First Thessalonians, we see that he defended himself by appealing to a set of standards—and to how he has acted in accordance with those standards. He uses words like deceit and trickery and holds up concepts like purity and trust. He refers to actions like “shameful mistreatment” and states how one ought to share oneself with others while proclaiming the gospel to them. He speaks about flattering others and seeking personal praise—and he speaks about their opposites: about seeking to please God and being tender with others.

As we read Paul’s letter to the Thessalonians, we find that there are in fact standards by which we can judge the quality of our love. They are the standards of the Bible—the standards of morality: the concrete and fixed morality of God, rather than the relative and ever-changing morality of humankind.

How do I know if I am loving as I ought? To me, the answer is found in Jesus’ observation that the greatest commandments do not replace the law and the prophets—they summarize them. If we feel as if we are off course, that the love we express in one part of our lives is somehow not showing up in the other parts, then we can check out our performance by looking at the guidelines found in Scripture. Using the standards of the Bible, we can check ourselves out—not as a way of judging or justifying ourselves, but as a way of improving ourselves, and thus of improving our world.

We Christians have two testaments, Old and New. There is the new message for us about God’s love, the nature of his Kingdom, and about eternal life; and there is also the older, original message which makes the new one understandable—which tells us who God is, in the first place. The first testament contains the law of God which Jesus summarizes in today’s gospel reading, and it shows us how to apply that law; and the second testament shows us—in Jesus—the perfect fulfillment of that law in human living. It gives us a great example to follow and to believe in.

In other words, there is a whole message, and not just a summary. We need to hear the whole message if we are to understand what is going on in us and in our world. That message reminds us that there are things like duty, responsibility, justice, accountability, sin, and punishment. It also reminds us that there are things like prayer, power, peace, reconciliation, mercy, and redemption.

Do I love as I ought? Am I on the right course? Those answers can be found in the answers to certain other questions—questions like: Do I have respect for others? Do I allow others to retain their dignity? Do I try to force my opinions upon my neighbours? Do I in fact give myself to others out of love? Or do I offer them only a sham of courtesy concealing some hidden agenda?

Do I love as I ought? The answer is found in the answer to questions like: Do I render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s? Do I pay my taxes and accept my responsibilities towards my fellow citizens? Do I support the legitimate work of the police and other authorities, or do I mock my nation’s laws? Do I lie or cheat to get ahead? Do I share my blessings willingly?

There are a lot of questions we can ask ourselves to help us decide if we are loving God and one another in the way we are called to do. It is good to ask these questions, for they do keep us honest. And, if sincerely asked and prayerfully thought about, their answers can lead us and our world to a greater wholeness. Ultimately, that is what Christian love is all about: it is about our wanting to be—and trying to be—faithful to God. It is about praying: “Lord, help me do what is right. Lord, help me love as I ought to. Lord, make me more like Jesus, who lived and died to set me free.”

Praise be unto his name, now and ever. Amen.

21st Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 24A

TEXTS: Exodus 33:12-23 and Matthew 22:15-22

 

“For how shall it be known that I have found favour in your sight, I and your people, unless you go with us? In this way, we shall be distinct, I and your people, from every people on the face of the earth.” (Exodus 33:16)

“Tell us, then, what you think. Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor or not?” But Jesus, aware of their malice, said, “Why are you putting me to the test, you hypocrites? Show me the coin used for the tax.” And they brought him a denarius. Then he said to them, “Whose head is this and whose title?” They answered, “The emperor’s.” Then he said to them, “Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s and to God the things that are God’s.” (Matthew 22:17-21)

How many of you have had the experience of being nagged? As I set about trying to build a message for today’s blog, I found myself in that situation. But it wasn’t another person inflicting the harassment.

No. What was nagging away at me was a sort of dim recollection of an event that happened long ago—sort of a “half-memory,” if you will. It was such a sketchy remembrance that I’m not even sure whether I recall the actual event—or just remember being told about it.

But the memory—or whatever it was—simply wouldn’t go away. And no matter how hard I tried to concentrate on writing my message, I found my mind coming back again and again to this sketchy, aggravating, barely recalled, long-past event. It was nagging at me!

Now, those of you who know me well understand that I hate being nagged. But you probably also understand that—no matter how much I hate being nagged—it works! If you nag me, I will respond. And so, finally, I had to pay attention to this nagging memory.

The memory was this: Many years ago there was a debate between the evangelist Billy Graham and the famous atheist Madalyn Murray O’Hair.¹

Now, we all know who Billy Graham was. And probably many of us remember Madalyn Murray O’Hair. Mrs. O’Hair’s atheism was of the militant sort. She asserted the position that no divine consciousness created the universe—indeed, she was convinced that there was no such thing as a Supreme Being. She did not believe in God, and she did not want the rest of us to believe, either.

As I said before, I cannot remember whether I witnessed this debate on TV, or read about it, or was simply told about it. But I do know that Mrs. O’Hair was an intelligent and articulate person—and Dr. Graham was the person who got me interested in Christian faith.

So, as I began to pay closer attention to the nagging voice inside my head, I grew curious. What was there about this event—this encounter between America’s best-known evangelist and its most notorious atheist—that had anything to do with this morning’s Scripture texts? And how could I research such a question?

First, I consulted Dr. Graham’s excellent autobiography, Just As I Am. But I could find no reference there to such a debate—and no mention of Madalyn Murray O’Hair.

Well, praise God for the Internet! Probably, I should have searched on-line first. For—after only about 10 minutes—I found myself directed to the website of St. Matthew’s United Methodist Church in Bowie, Maryland. And there—in an archive of sermons by the Rev. Richard E. Stetler—I found what I was looking for. Richard Stetler remembered the debate between Graham and O’Hair—and, thank goodness, he chose to write about it!

According to Rev. Stetler, the discussion between the two was actually quite civil; “fair and well-balanced” was the phrase he used. That surprised me a little, because I remember Mrs. O’Hair as being a rather bombastic—even vulgar—person. Certainly, she was one of these annoying people who seems to have an answer for everything. (Aren’t you glad we don’t have people like that in the church?)

Close to the end of the debate, however, Billy Graham asked Mrs. O’Hair a question that she could not answer. The way Richard Stetler remembered it, Dr. Graham said something like this:

“The compassion of Christians for the rest of humanity has been such that through the years we have founded and built countless libraries, hospitals, colleges and universities. We have improved the agricultural techniques and established schools in countries around the world. We have promoted psychological services, prison ministries, supported free clinics, and distributed clothing and food to those in need. We are frequently the first to arrive on the scene of local and national disasters. Mrs. O’Hair, can you give us a modest listing of the agencies and organizations that serve humanity that have sprung into being because of atheism?” ² 

Madalyn Murray O’Hair, apparently, had very little to say in response. But now I understood why this long-ago (and evidently quite obscure) debate was relevant to today’s lectionary readings.

In our selection from the Book of Exodus, there is a very insightful verse. Moses, I think, may have been having a crisis of faith. He appears in this passage to need reassurance from God that God will always be with him—and with the people of Israel.

Moses is outlining what he would like God to do. During his conversation with God, Moses says, in effect: “Your presence with us will distinguish us from any other people on earth.”

This was precisely Dr. Graham’s point. The people of God are a very distinctive people. Not perfect, mind you—but distinctive. Unique. Called—even “called out” of the world. Whether we are mindful of it or not, we who refer to ourselves as “Christians” belong to a group whose mission it is to make God’s love visible.

Oh, I know we’re not always good at it. Often, our behaviour stinks. We make mistakes in judgment. In fact, sometimes we make the mistake of judgment! We say things to each other and about each other that are unworthy of our high calling—and which betray the kinship Christians have with one another. Too often, we hurt each other with our judgments and perceptions. Too often, we backslide in our loyalty to Jesus. It’s embarrassing, and shameful, and scandalous.

Even so, God allows us—even calls us—to become the channels through which his grace becomes visible. We are the ones whom God sends into the world with the message of the gospel: the message of God’s redeeming love in Christ Jesus.

More than that, God calls us to be the embodiment of that redeeming love—the picture of it, if you will. The likeness of Christ is supposed to be stamped upon us as indelibly as Caesar’s likeness was stamped upon that coin Jesus spoke of in Matthew’s gospel.

When the energy of grace—of divine love—touches someone, it affects everything about them. Even the most miserable people can have their hearts touched by it. We are called to be the carriers of that energy—the bearers of that unique, distinctive, other-worldly love … no matter what!

Yikes! What a challenge! What a difficult task, especially when the people in our lives are being obnoxious. We may get to feeling like Moses did, dealing with those obstinate, faithless Israelites.

But look: when others are irritable, when their attitudes are lousy, when their words and deeds try our patience, can we see that such behaviours are, more often than not, a cry for help? Or a call for love? Can we respond graciously, because of who we have become within the Body of Christ? If so, then others will see in us the likeness of our Lord. If not, well …    

Christians are often judged as being hypocrites, as saying one thing and doing another, or of being no better than those who don’t believe in anything! And often—too often—the shoe fits. Hypocrites. Phonies. Sinners! We are all those things. But we are also much more than that. We are the body of Christ—“and individually members of it” (1 Cor. 12:27). We are Christ’s body. We carry his likeness. And that is what makes us distinct.

Those of us who are longtime church members tend to take our faith experience for granted. Yet—however uncoordinated and disjointed our witness may at times appear—we are members of one body. The collective consciousness (some would call it the “Christ consciousness”) of this fellowship nurtures us in God’s love. We do not see it. We may not always feel it. But it is among us and within us nevertheless. And when we remember to express it—when we remember to make Christ visible in our lives—then we see tremendous results!

When we seek to live what Jesus taught, our lives begin to change. To be sure, we have all fallen short of the glory of God—but we have all been created in the image of God. When we learn to give without counting the cost, our authentic identity begins to surface. When we learn to treat other people as we would like to be treated, even more of our identity begins to show. And so it is that, gradually, we become God’s own distinct people.

We too often forget that “where our treasure is, there will our hearts be also.” We need to thank God for the treasure we find in Christian fellowship. By the power of the Holy Spirit, we are called out of the world—but we are also called into our distinct spiritual home. By claiming Christ as our Saviour and Lord, we are made one with him. We are re-created. We are made distinct. We are made different … and we are called to make a difference!

That’s what newness of life is all about, isn’t it?

_______________________________________________

¹ Yes, that is the correct spelling of her name: “Madalyn O’Hair” not “Madeline O’Hare.”

² “Who Gives God Visibility?” Sermon preached by Rev. Richard E. Stetler on October 20, 2002 at Saint Matthew’s United Methodist Church in Bowie, Maryland, U.S.A. (http://stmatthews-bowie.org/Worship/Sermons/2002/sermon_10_20_02.asp).

Help, O LORD, for there is no longer anyone who is godly; the faithful have disappeared from humankind. (Psalm 12:1)

Over this past week, close to 3,000 people have been killed in Israel and in the Gaza Strip following Saturday’s unprecedented surprise attack by Hamas on Israel and the resulting Israeli airstrikes on Gaza. As of this writing, an Israeli ground assault on Gaza appears imminent.

Israel’s ambassador to the United Nations, Gilad Erdan, has said that “between 100 and 150” hostages, including women and children, are being held in Gaza after being kidnapped.

According to the Israeli military, more than 1,300 people in Israel have been killed so far, and some 2,700 wounded; Gaza’s health ministry reports over 1,400 people dead and close to 7,000 wounded in their territory. And on both sides of the border, the death toll continues to increase.

The attack by Hamas put Israel on a wartime footing in what’s been considered the worst attack on the country since the Yom Kippur war in 1973. It is now being called “Israel’s 9/11.”

 

Almighty God, we come before you as your children, giving thanks for the blessings of life: for your gift of love in Jesus Christ, we give you thanks; for your love reflected in the lives of people we know—spouses, parents, grandparents, children, siblings, friends—we give you thanks. For the wonders of creation—for mountains, prairies, seashores, whispering pines, beautiful flowers, graceful beasts, and the starry sky at night—we give you thanks. In all of these things, we feel your presence in and around us. Thank you, Lord, for never leaving us nor forsaking us. Thank you for giving to us not as the world gives, but as Jesus gives—freely, and deeply, and eternally.

We come before you today praying—as so often we pray—for peace and harmony amongst the peoples of the earth; for an end to armed conflict and to the injustices which precipitate it. Yet today we bring this prayer with heavy hearts and much discouragement. As we witness the tragedy unfolding in Israel and in Gaza, we are shaken to our very core, and we find ourselves asking whether there is any point to our continued prayers for peace. A ground assault by Israeli forces appears inevitable (and perhaps, unavoidable). Thousands of innocent people are already dead—and we do not know how many more will die in the days and weeks to come.

God, please help us. Help us to believe that peace is still worth praying for. Hear us as now we pray, and strengthen our prayers with that grace which is called courage. We pray for all those whose lives have been shattered or ended by the events of this past week. We think of ordinary people in Gaza City—women and children and men—who find themselves caught up in a conflict not of their own making. We remember the Israelis who were slaughtered by Hamas at a music festival and in their homes. We remember those hostages who are being held in Gaza and used as human shields. We think of those who lost and are losing loved ones. We think of those whose lives will yet be lost as this cycle of violence continues to spin out of control and the blood of innocent victims cries out from the ground. Lord, help us to understand the distinction between justice and vengeance.

We pray for the leaders of the world, that you might guide them as they choose how to react to the terrorist threat which is before us. Especially we pray for Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and the members of his National Unity government; give them comfort and courage, but also true wisdom. May their legitimate desires for justice and for the survival of their nation be tempered with compassion and concern for innocent people who may stand in the path of retaliation. Also, we pray for our own Prime Minister, Justin Trudeau, and his cabinet; and for American President Joe Biden and his cabinet; as they stand in support of our friends in Israel, may they also benefit from the guidance of your Spirit.

Mighty and tender God, you are supreme not only in justice but also in mercy. You bring release to the captives and rest to the weary, and you know the way of suffering in Jesus Christ our Saviour. Hear us as we pray.

In the midst of our anguish and shock over the gigantic evil which has reared its head in the land called “holy” by three great world religions, let us not forget that you are a God who cares for each one of us. Lord, we pray for your continuing care for the least of our human family, asking that your healing, reconciling power might come upon them. We pray for all your children who are suffering this day—for the hungry, the homeless, the abused; for the imprisoned, the despairing, the diseased and the dying.

God, be with them, and with those who care for them. Insofar as we are able, let us be your messengers of hope and comfort in this troubled world; and keep strong our resolve to live and work for you, even in the worst of times. All these things we ask in the name of Jesus, who is our Prince of Peace. Amen.

October 8, 2023 ~ Thanksgiving Sunday (CANADA)

On the way to Jerusalem Jesus was going through the region between Samaria and Galilee. As he entered a village, ten lepers approached him. Keeping their distance, they called out, saying, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!” When he saw them, he said to them, “Go and show yourselves to the priests.” And as they went, they were made clean. Then one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, praising God with a loud voice. He prostrated himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him. And he was a Samaritan. Then Jesus asked, “Were not ten made clean? But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?” Then he said to him, “Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.” — Luke 17:11-19 (NRSV)

The first prescribed reading for Thanksgiving Sunday, Lectionary Year “A” comes from the Book of Deuteronomy, chapter eight (vv. 7-18). It calls us to remember that every good thing we have comes from the Lord, who blesses the land and the people in it. Then, in the gospel lesson, Luke tells us about the ten lepers healed by Jesus—only one of whom returned to give thanks.

There’s another Old Testament passage we could have read today—one which throws some light on the predicament of the ten lepers. It’s from the 13th chapter of Leviticus, and it says this:

When a person has on the skin of his body a swelling or an eruption or a spot, and it turns into a leprous disease on the skin of his body, he shall be brought to … the priest … The priest shall examine the disease … and if … it is a leprous disease … the priest … shall pronounce him ceremonially unclean … The person who has the leprous disease shall wear torn clothes and let the hair of his head be dishevelled; and he shall cover his upper lip and cry out, “Unclean, unclean.”  He shall remain unclean as long as he has the disease; he is unclean. He shall live alone; his dwelling shall be outside the camp (Lev. 13:2-3, 45-46).

For centuries before Jesus—and for centuries after him—leprosy was a dreaded disease. It remains so, in much of the world, and it still causes horrible disfigurement. Today, it’s relatively easy to cure—if you can afford the medicine. But in Biblical times, there was no known remedy.

In Jesus’ day, the only solution was to drive afflicted persons out of the community—to forbid them from coming into contact with healthy people. That’s why, as Luke describes the scene, he says the lepers stand far away, calling from a distance: “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us.”

These poor souls! They are the ultimate outcasts.

Usually, the only hope for a leper—and it was a pretty faint hope—was that the disease would disappear spontaneously. But even if this happened, the cured leper could not simply return home. No. The community was much too fearful of the disease. Some authority had to certify that the person was truly healed—and that, of course, was the priest at the temple in Jerusalem.

The Book of Leviticus—which is really a “how-to” manual for all kinds of things, including medical care—prescribed a ritual for this. In chapter 14, we read:

… the leprous person … shall be brought to the priest … and the priest shall make an examination. If the disease is healed in the leprous person, the priest shall command that two living clean birds and cedar wood and crimson yarn and hyssop be brought for the one who is to be cleansed. The priest shall command that one of the birds be slaughtered over fresh water in an earthen vessel. He shall take the living bird with the cedar wood and the crimson yarn and the hyssop, and dip them and the living bird in the blood of the bird that was slaughtered over the fresh water. He shall sprinkle it seven times upon the one who is to be cleansed of the leprous disease; then he shall pronounce him clean, and he shall let the living bird go into the open field (Lev. 14:2-7).

In today’s gospel story, this is what Jesus is telling the lepers to do. Now, of course, there’s no point in them going to Jerusalem to see the priest unless they had already been cleansed of their disease, so—as Luke tells us—while they are on their way, at some point they realize their leprosy has miraculously disappeared. Hallelujah!

For most of them, their only aim now is to go see the priest and get certified clean so they can return to their families—and so they continue on their way. However, there’s one of them who really cannot do that—and of course, I’m talking about the one who is a Samaritan.

Samaritans, you may remember, were outcasts from Jewish society to begin with. They worshipped the same God as the Jews did, but they had a different Bible, and they worshipped in a different temple, in a different place. The Jews thought they were heretics, which was almost worse than being unclean. So the Samaritan leper was a double outcast. There’s no point in him going to the Jerusalem temple. He would only meet with contempt from any Jewish priest.

So what will he do? Where will he find a priest that will declare him clean? And then it dawns on him: there is a great High Priest who will receive him. So he hurries back to Jesus, and throws himself at the feet of the one who healed him, and praises God for the great thing that has been done for him. It’s the only place he can go—and the only one he can go to. And he hears the voice of Jesus tell him: “Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.”

Have you ever found yourself in that position? Where Jesus is the only one you can go to? Where “at his feet” is the only place you can fall?

I know a man who—some 70 years ago, when it was still a big deal—was born out of wedlock. His mother kept him, but she also kept the truth about him secret, passing herself off as a widow, and never letting anyone outside the family get close. The man grew up with this secret—with this shame, with this feeling that polite society would never accept him.

But then somehow, in his teenage years, he got hooked up with a Billy Graham Crusade, and he gave his life to Jesus. And because of that, he found the courage to trust a church community with the truth about himself.

And in that congregation, he discovered, for the first time, a place where his past did not matter—where it really did not matter, at all! So he found not only salvation for his soul, but also healing for his wounded spirit. And I tell you, he heard the voice of Jesus tell him, “Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.”

I know a woman who—for too many years—was oppressed by an addiction that led her to sell her body on the streets of Vancouver so she would have money for alcohol and drugs. And she thought she would be forever trapped in that hell, where the good and decent people she did encounter crossed the street to avoid her (at least, she thought they were good and decent people, at the time …).

But then her baby daughter was born, addicted to heroin. And that broke her heart—but it also firmed up her resolve to change. So she mustered the courage to step out of her private hell—to chase after the “good and decent” people, to cross to the other side of the street. And (thank God) she found out that a few of them really were decent, after all.

She found her way into a rehab centre, and then a halfway house, and finally into a job and an apartment of her own, and a healthy relationship. She learned to have faith in a Higher Power and, finally, she learned to forgive herself.

She also found her way into a fellowship where God is honoured because the people there know he’s real: not a myth or a metaphor, but a living God. And—while not all of them identify themselves as Christians—all of them identify with her. And I tell you, this is the place where she hears the voice of Jesus tell her, “Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.”

I know another woman who not long ago found herself pregnant and unmarried, and faced with a terrible decision. Because, you see, she was strongly pressured to have an abortion and (as it was put to her) “just sweep the whole sorry situation under the rug.”

Except, for her, this was not about a “situation” … it was about her unborn child. So she resolved to have her baby and keep it, even though that would mean she would lose the financial support of her parents and the esteem of many of her friends.

She wasn’t from any kind of religious background, and it would never have occurred to her to go to a church and ask for help. But because she saw one of their advertisements, she got connected with her local Pregnancy Care Centre, which was a faith-based organization. They helped her get set up with a place to live, and—after her child was born—they helped her find employment. And because of her contact with the people at the Care Centre, she also discovered faith.

She got connected with a Christian community where her past didn’t matter … where, in fact, it did not matter at all.

Do I need to tell you whose voice she hears, now, in all the places where she lives and loves and works? You got it … it’s the voice of Jesus, and he’s saying to her: “Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.”

Now, I have not told that last story because I have some kind of “pro-life” agenda. I pass no judgment upon anyone who, faced with an unwanted pregnancy, makes a different decision. Life choices are rarely simple, and I believe Jesus calls us to respond with compassionate understanding in every circumstance. I told the story because it is an illustration from real life.

In fact, all three of those stories are illustrations from real life. And yes, pregnancy plays a part in each one of them.

Each one of those stories, one way or another, involves a birth. Or maybe two kinds of births. There’s the literal birth of a child. But there’s also the kind of birth that figures in this morning’s gospel passage—which is the birth of faith.

The nine Jewish lepers … well, they already had their own kind of faith. And so they were able to do what Jesus instructed them to do. They could go to the temple, they could go to the priest, and they would fit in there because—now that their leprosy was gone—they were the “right” kind of people. But the one Samaritan leper … where could he go? Not to Jerusalem, that’s for sure! That was not his faith. What’s more, that faith didn’t want him!

But something was born that day in that healed Samaritan—and it was a new kind of faith.

Yes. A new kind of faith: one which did not depend on religious ritual, or upon being “the right kind of person.” A new kind of faith was being born—a new kind of covenant, a new kind of promise—one that’s all about relationship, instead of righteousness.

This, I believe, is what it means to be the church. It’s about being the kind of place where this new faith can be born in people’s hearts—where broken hearts can be mended and healed by it. The church is called to be the birthplace of faith. That’s why it exists.

But there’s more.

Last week—if you attended a service for World Communion Sunday—you may have been reminded that the apostle Paul loved to call the church the “body of Christ.” He said we are all members of one another, and that we all need one another—and that we are the eyes and ears and arms and legs and hands and feet of Jesus in the world today.* And today, I want to tell you that we are not only Jesus’ eyes and ears and arms and legs and hands and feet. We are his voice, as well!

When people show up inside your particular Christian community (whatever “brand” that might be) they are pregnant with faith. They may or may not know that. Sometimes, the world—their lives, their circumstances—have made them so ill, have made them feel so unclean, that they barely notice what’s gestating inside their hearts. But if they do find their way into your company, if they do fall down at Jesus’ feet before you, remember this: Jesus’ feet are our feet! And our voices are the ones that must say to them: “Here’s a place where you can get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.”

I give thanks today because I know the church can still be that kind of place. And I pray today that it always will be.

________________________

* see 1 Corinthians 12:12-27

Eighteenth Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 21A

TEXT: Philippians 2:1-13

If then there is any encouragement in Christ, any consolation from love, any sharing in the Spirit, any compassion and sympathy, make my joy complete: be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others. (Philippians 2:1-4)

Back in 2011, I led a small group study of a book by Rob Bell, entitled Love Wins. You may be familiar with Rob Bell from the many other books he’s written, or from his appearances on the Oprah Winfrey Show, or from his podcast, or from the series of NOOMA videos which were very popular a few years back.

Anyway, Love Wins is—as it says on the cover—a book about heaven and hell. And there’s been a lot of controversy generated by what Rob Bell wrote in there about hell. Many Christians, it seems, really do not like it when Bell says things like: “I have a hard time believing that somewhere down below the earth’s crust is a really crafty figure in red tights holding a three-pointed spear, playing Pink Floyd records backward, and enjoying the hidden messages.” ¹

I want to say to Rob Bell that, honestly, I have a hard time believing that, too!

Personally, I’d rather talk about heaven. Now, I realize that heaven—even if it’s a more pleasant topic of conversation—can be a dicey subject, too. I mean, it invites questions like: Where is heaven, exactly? Will everybody be there? Is it filled with clouds, angels, and harps? And is it really as boring as some of us secretly fear?

But none of these are questions I want to take up today. I want to focus on something else Rob Bell says in his book. Listen to this: “Jesus invites us, in this life, in this broken, beautiful world, to experience the life of heaven now. He insisted over and over that God’s peace, joy, and love are currently available to us, exactly as we are.” ²

Wow! Did you hear that? The life of heaven can be experienced here and now. God’s peace, joy, and love are available to us, here and now.

And really, that’s kind of like what Paul is saying in our epistle reading for today, when he tells the Philippians that God is at work in them, enabling them “both to will and to work for his good pleasure” (Phil. 2:13). Paul wants to wake them up—and wake us up—to the fact that heaven exists here and now, and we can experience it today, right now, this very moment.

Now, Paul doesn’t actually use the word “heaven.” Instead, he talks about salvation—and he does it in a way that has made Protestant Christians nervous for over 500 years.

Listen to what he says in verse 12: “Therefore, my beloved, just as you have always obeyed me, not only in my presence, but much more now in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling.”

Work out your own salvation? And this is Paul speaking? Paul, the “by-grace-you-are-saved-and-not-by-works” apostle? What on earth can this mean?

Well … relax. Paul is not backtracking on his assertion that we are justified by grace through faith. No. It’s just that he operates with a far more expansive notion of salvation than most of us do.

You see, the “salvation” that Paul is speaking about here—the salvation we are to “work out”—is not about the particular, private destiny of any individual person. Rather, the apostle is thinking about our corporate life—our life together as members of Christ’s body.

Paul has already (in 2:1-4) described the quality of this life in terms of mutual love and affection, sharing in the Spirit, unity, humility, and putting others first—all of which, taken together, paints a picture of what the Church should be like. Here is real “quality of life”—and it is meant to be a public life, a public witness.

In the chapter preceding this one, Paul urges the Philippians to let their manner of life be worthy of the gospel. His point was (and is) that Christians should behave so that, when outsiders look at the Church, they will see a public demonstration of what salvation means (see 1:27-29).

In other words—as Paul asserts in chapter three of this letter—Christians are supposed to “shine as lights in the world” (3:15).

That’s what Paul means here when he talks about “salvation”—he means a life lived now; lived in the church—lived in the community of atonement and reconciliation. And “working out our salvation” is therefore nothing less or more than living as if the promises of the gospel are true; living, that is, the way Christ lived. What does that look like? Well, let’s go back to the beginning of today’s passage.

Paul writes that because—a much better translation than “if”—because there is encouragement, consolation, sharing, compassion, and sympathy in our life as Christians, we should act that way, not seeking first our own good, but looking out for others while trusting our fates and our lives to God.

And then Paul gives us the perfect example of such selfless and self-emptying love: Jesus. Actually, it’s more than just an example; first and foremost, it’s a promise.

This, Paul says, is just how much Jesus loves you—he wasn’t content to sit in heaven and luxuriate in the privilege or power that comes from being divine. Instead, he left all that behind and took on our lot and our life, experiencing all that we experience (and then some). Why? So that we could see the breadth and depth and height of God’s love for us.

Paul’s hope is that, once we have experienced the boundless love of God, we might in turn be able to regard others in the same way—not as objects to be exploited, but as persons to be treasured; not as opponents competing for scarce resources, but as brothers and sisters deserving of our unconditional regard and support.

And here is where I see a connection between Rob Bell and the apostle Paul. I think both of them are saying that—once we’ve received this good news—we are set free to love and care for one another right now. This is what Jesus called “the kingdom of God.”

To quote Rob Bell once again, “eternal life is less about a kind of time that starts when we die, and more about a quality and vitality of life lived now in connection to God.” ³

It’s about us living a new kind of life—a life that Jesus gives us, a life that is radically different from anything we’ve known before. According to Paul, Jesus’ cross and resurrection together formed the pivot point of history, the fulcrum with which God moved the destiny of the whole universe. Nothing is the same for Paul once he has encountered the crucified and risen One—and nothing should be the same for us, either.

To put it another way, because we live in the grace of God right now, this very moment is the hour of salvation. “Heaven” and  “salvation” are not future realities standing at a distance from us. No. They are right here, right in front of us. “Heaven” and  “salvation” are present-tense realities waiting to be embraced and lived out—right here, right now.

So what does it look like to “work out our salvation with fear and trembling”? It means going about our everyday tasks and duties with the conviction that the gospel is true: believing that love is stronger than hate, that life is stronger than death, and that God’s promised future is bigger and better than either the past we’ve created or the future we deserve. And because the gospel is true, we are free to relate to others in the way that Jesus did.

That should be awe-inspiring! That’s how I understand the reference to “fear and trembling”—I think it’s about awe, and respect, and wonder. We can do heaven’s work. We can be Christ for others.

All of this means, of course, that opportunities abound for working out our salvation. From selling that used car at a fair price to emptying bedpans at the nursing home to befriending the kid whom others bully or voting in the next election, we are granted—each and every day—countless opportunities to serve others as Christ has served us.

It may be at home or work, at school or through our volunteer activities, but wherever we have “the mind of Christ” as we go about our lives, we are most surely working out—and witnessing to—our salvation. And we are doing it with the awe and respect this vision of heaven deserves.

This understanding of working out our salvation, of practicing the presence of Jesus, is all about bringing heaven down to earth. It’s about understanding that our salvation is right there in front of us, just waiting to be embraced and lived.

And this, my friends, is real life. It’s not a TV show or a movie; it’s not virtual reality; it is God’s action in human flesh. It invades our world. It draws us into the saving work of God. It makes us participants instead of spectators. It transforms us—all of us together—into “the body of Christ.” And we become his arms and legs, his hands and feet, his eyes and ears.

We “work out our own salvation” by doing the work of salvation, whenever and wherever it needs doing. That’s what it means to be the Church. It’s an adventure we signed up for when we decided to follow Jesus. And, you know what? I think we’re the luckiest people on the face of the earth!

Thanks be to God. Amen.

________________

¹ Rob Bell, Love Wins: A Book About Heaven, Hell, and the Fate of Every Person Who Ever Lived (New York: HarperCollins, 2011), p. 70.

² Ibid., p. 62.

³ Ibid., p. 59.

Seventeenth Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 20A

TEXT: Matthew 20:1-16

“Now when the first came, they thought they would receive more; but each of them also received the usual daily wage. And when they received it, they grumbled against the landowner, saying, ‘These last worked only one hour, and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the day and the scorching heat.’ But he replied to one of them, ‘Friend, I am doing you no wrong; did you not agree with me for the usual daily wage? Take what belongs to you and go; I choose to give to this last the same as I give to you. Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or are you envious because I am generous?’ So the last will be first, and the first will be last.” (Matthew 20:10-16)

“Welcome to Acme Photo Church Directory Service. Reconnect with your community. Create New and Lasting Memories. We are booking photography now! Dates are limited and are scheduled on a first-come, first-serve basis.”

Do congregations still produce “pictorial church directories”? You know what I mean, right? They used to be really popular. They were kind of combination telephone directories and yearbooks for a given community of faith, with everybody’s photograph and contact information printed in glossy magazine format, for all the world to see. The publishing company would make its money by having congregants sit for portraits and then trying to sell them a photo package.

Personally, I always thought it was sort of a sketchy enterprise, with the local church acting as a shill. But in the end, everybody who wanted one (or in some cases, only those who sat for portraits) got a copy of the finished product. It actually was a very useful tool if you were new to the congregation and wanted help connecting faces with names. There were usually also photographs commemorating events in the life of the community: special services, church-choir-through-the-years pictures, a “rogues’ gallery” of former ministers … that sort of thing.

I remember how, once upon a time, the congregation I was pastoring undertook a directory project in preparation for the 60th anniversary of its founding. In honour of this landmark occasion, we asked people to send us photographs taken around the church over the past six decades. And boy, did we get them! Several pages of the directory were devoted to these historical snapshots—and it was quite the trip down memory lane.

Those who’d been around the place for a long time greatly appreciated these commemorative pages. On them were many faces that told precious stories: faces of friends long gone, faces of children now grown to adulthood, faces that had changed considerably over the years. And some who had arrived on the scene more recently (like me) looked at those snapshots, and recognized a face, and declared: “Wow! I can’t believe so-and-so has been here that long!”

It was kinda cool, actually. Because we did still have a few charter members in our midst, as well as numerous others—whether “official” members or not—who’d been part of our church family for three or four or five decades.

If we gave out long-service awards, there would’ve been dozens of people walking around with stickpins or badges or … I dunno … maybe gold watches! (Actually, we never had the budget for that.)

Yeah … there really aren’t many “perks” that come with long-term church membership, are there? I wonder if there should be. What do you think?

Should those who have been members longer have more benefits? More access to pastoral care? More influence with the church council, or the pastor? The right to censor the Sunday sermon so nobody gets offended? Exclusive access to the kitchen refrigerator? Should they get complimentary tickets to the turkey supper? Maybe there could be a head table …

Of course these are ridiculous ideas.

Or are they?

Consider the story Jesus told in today’s gospel reading. Can’t we understand the discontent of the longer-serving labourers? They saw their treatment as unfair—and they felt justifiably outraged. At least, they thought they were justified.

Don’t you feel a bit of sympathy for those who worked the longest? These hired hands laboured harder and longer … yet were paid the same amount as those who showed up at the end of the day!

We know something about this, don’t we? Most of us can identify with the disgruntled workers in Jesus’ parable.

Those of you who’ve been parents may recall devoting countless hours of time and energy to coaching youth sports leagues or leading scout troops, or helping with choir fundraisers … all to support the children of other able parents … parents who did not volunteer to do their fair share.

Or maybe you know what it feels like to be one of a handful—just a small handful—of conscientious folks who always pitch in to help with community activities … like coffee time, or Sunday School, or groundskeeping, or facility maintenance … or church suppers …

Or perhaps you’re the oldest child in your family, and you grew up feeling resentful because more was expected of you than of your sisters or brothers. How many first-borns, I wonder, complain that their parents let younger siblings have more liberty—more freedom, more privileges—than they had at the same age?

It seems to me that one of the first things we learn in life is to distinguish between what seems fair and what seems painfully unfair. And yet—as we hear this parable about the vineyard workers—it appears that our Lord did not regard fairness or unfairness in the way we tend to think about those things. Indeed, Jesus of Nazareth did not seem overly concerned about labour/management relations … or about who got to what place first.

In the story we hear him tell today, Jesus does what he does best: he turns our ideas of correctness upside-down. He challenges our religious assumptions, offering instead a radical understanding of God, and of our relationship with God.

Jesus wants us to see beyond viewing events as being simply unfair or fair. He wants us to glimpse the utter limitless generosity of our heavenly Employer. He wants us to understand that—in the eyes of God—our worth is not measured by how much money we earn or how productive we are.

Jesus wants us to know that each one of us is a person of infinite worth—not because of anything we have done or can do—but because of God’s boundless love for us. Some people call that “grace.”

Jesus tells us that—in the face of our limited, worldly perspectives about what is fair and what is unfair—God works with a different reality, in a different direction, and by very different standards.

Someone has observed that the parables of Jesus are like vivid dreams—they are so vivid that they actually wake us up. And then …

Then we find ourselves face-to-face with the Kingdom of God. Then we are presented with a new understanding of ourselves. We are sifted, and sorted, and rearranged by the story we’ve heard. Instead of seeking an explanation for the parable, we suddenly understand that the parable explains us!

The discontented labourers of Matthew 20 are, after all, not that different from us. Like us, they expect equal pay for equal work. However—as the landowner points out—the contracted amounts were honoured. No injustice was done.

The only real charge that could be made against him is that he was generous to those who laboured little. He was generous enough to pay everyone—everyone who worked at all—a full day’s wage.

Now, maybe you think he was a terrible businessman; but—through his generosity—every person who came to work got enough money to pay for a meal or two. After that workday was finished, none of the labourers went hungry. So the issue here is not the wage—and not the contract—but rather, the employer’s generosity.

Historically, this parable has been interpreted around the themes of human jealousy, God’s generosity, and the danger of taking for granted God’s grace and salvation.

Let’s explore those themes, briefly.

Most often, I think, our jealousy of one another is based either in fear of unfair treatment, or in our own insecurity—our fear that we may not quite measure up. Jealousy causes us to see others as objects rather than as persons—as rivals, instead of neighbours. It makes a distinction between “them” and “us.”

Jealous fears drive wedges between friends. Jealousy can destroy even the deepest bonds of affection. Certainly, it made the offended workers oblivious to the landowner’s generosity. Envy is based on the notion of scarcity—of limited resources—and it easily blinds us to the real needs of others. Yet nothing could be further away from God’s grace and love. God’s grace is boundless, and his love is unlimited.

How can we begrudge God’s generosity? This parable shames our jealousy—our grudging of others’ gifts and good fortune. In God’s household, all the family members are unique. All the children are special. And all are gathered into one company!

When we attempt to cast someone out of our circle, we are claiming a superior position to which we are not entitled. As an anonymous poem puts it:

Has God deserted Heaven, and left it up to you

to judge if this or that is right, and what each one should do?

I think God’s still in business, and knows when to wield the rod,

so when you’re judging others, remember … you’re not God!”

Before the Almighty, we all stand in our neediness. We have each been wounded by life, and it is the generosity of God’s grace which provides for us. As someone has said: “God pays his servants neither by time nor by piecework, but by grace.”

Just like the fieldworkers in Jesus’ parable, we are challenged to come and labour on … even when the pay-off seems unequal, even when the “greater portion”—the bigger and better reward, which we think we deserve—does not come to us.

To be sure, there are times when it looks like some are being rewarded lavishly—even when their sacrifices and losses seem tiny compared to ours. At such times, we need to remember the contract; do our work with diligence; and give thanks to God.

Our work is a reminder of God’s graciousness and generosity in calling us into his Kingdom. Thank God for providing the opportunity for us to be in the vineyard at all. And thank God for the work we have been given to do—even if we are labouring in the heat of the day.